White Rose
by MyFrenzy
Summary: AU. You can't move anymore, and your brain is not connected with your body. So you sit, unmoving, and hear the cries. The cries you caused. Smitchie. Oneshot.


_White Rose_

_--_

_i find everything i thought i lost before,  
you call my name ._

_--_

It's Friday the thirteenth (irony never fails) and you're standing, numb, while everyone else cries so loud your ears are supposed to be burning. But everything around you seems like something else—all you think about is how this is, in a way, all your fault.

In your mind you are blaming yourself, for being an idiot, for not listening when you had to. You hear your friends—_her_ friends—call from a distance, but you refuse to stand up. How can you stand up?

It's raining. You know she hated rainy days. (again, irony never fails you) She used to say that it might be nice to look at your window with hot chocolate, but she hated the smell of chocolate and she hated the humid weather in which the rain left the next day.

She hated a lot of things. She loved you—then she hated you. Then she loved you again, but you hated her when you never really did have a chance to. You said things you now regret—this very moment—but can't go back. You can't rewind time.

You can't fucking move anymore, and your brain is not connected with your body. So you sit, unmoving, and hear the cries.

The cries _you_ caused.

--

You remember the first time you met her. It was at the train station, sitting on two separate benches. She was beautiful. Her eyes shone from a mile away and her hair didn't fail but impress you—oh how wonderful her hair was, so wavy and with no effort to put a comb in, yet still seemingly soft and precious.

When she finally raised her eyes and looked at you, and your heart hurt to see all the sadness hidden behind them—for a moment, her vulnerability showed—the things she'd been through, the things she'd seen, how you wished to comfort her. How the light shown in a perfect angle to her face, making her sad features brighten if only a small amount.

And then, as if she hadn't shown anything at all, she gave you a small smile. You remember how your heart raced, how unconsciously your features managed to return the smile, how your hands sweated and your heart ached for more than a friendly smile—to hold her, to touch her skin…

Those feelings scared you, remember? Yes, you remember, and you shut your eyes. Had you only said something to her that day—had you only walked up to her, introduced yourself, maybe you wouldn't have come too late into her life.

--

Nevertheless, two days later, you ended up sitting on her same bench. Your skins were close to touching—you could feel the warmth of her body. Oh, how you loved the feeling her closeness gave you. How your mouth was dry and even as you attempted to say something, no words could find their ways out.

But then, you remember clearly how her eyes looked up and caught yours—how your heart raced so much and your eyes lingered to her lips, seeming so soft, so vulnerable, so innocent…

So unkissed.

Dear God, could you only kiss her then and there it would have been the best day of your life—could you have known that she wouldn't have pulled away—then maybe you would have done something about it. Maybe.

But she grinned, her teeth so white, her features so happy that they took your breath away and you forgot your name for a while. Had she said something first, you didn't know. You smile slightly at the thought. You didn't remember what she had said at first because you didn't hear her—you were too mesmerized with her eyes, her grin.

"Excuse me?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Trying not to jump with joy that this beautiful woman had actually talked to you, remember? How you knew you were already in love with her? How you could tell she was so amazing? Do you?

Yes, you do.

She kept smiling at you, the smile not reaching her eyes anymore, though. But you didn't look into it. You didn't dare hypothesize why her smile did was not as gallant as before—you were too involved in what she thought about _you_. "I said," she reminded you. "What's your name?"

You mentally slapped yourself. You couldn't remember your own name, oh how stupid you were. You were a stupid, arrogant jerk who couldn't remember his own name because of a smile a woman you barely even knew took your breath away in a moment.

But you managed to speak, after all. You managed to remember your name, give her a smile, and triumphfully tell her what your name was.

She nodded slowly, and you noticed how her hair was pushed behind her ears, as it moved with volume as she shook her head up and down, up and down, very slowly, tempting you in the most demining of ways. But you knew how to control yourself, right?

There, you did.

"My name is Michelle," she finally said after a few moments of agonizing silence. "Michelle Torres." She corrected. You smile now as you remember how she told you her full name.

You told her it was an honor to meet her, and how you wished you could stay, but you had things to do. She told you it was all quite alright, and you excused yourself without a goodbye.

Oh, what an idiot you had been! Making up excuses to get out of there when clearly you wanted to stay. You wanted to stay there forever and just look at her—you didn't have to talk, didn't have to say a word, but you just wanted to look at her for such a long time it hurt you—it tugged at your heart.

But you were afraid of what she would think of a man falling in love with her with just a few exchanged glances and words. It was stupid and you would seem too much of a stalker!

If you would have only known that then, she had fallen for you, too.

--

Months passed, and it seemed you met at the same place every single day without agreeing to it. Two months, exactly. It was now November, and the cold was agonizing, but both of you made the sacrifice and met up in that same bench at the train station.

You would talk about nothing in particular, you remember. Just about how sometimes you couldn't stand the cold, how the little things in life could make you cry, how plants withered away in the winter season only because their hearts couldn't stand such evil—that they resembled her.

You never pushed the subject further. What did she mean, you wondered every day, that the way she described withering plants and compared them to her? But you never asked. You let her wither like the plants she said, just because of not asking one simple, damn question.

One day, as you laughed at some stupid joke you thought of that moment, (so stupid, yet that's what makes them funny, she used to say.) she finally told you to call her Mitchie.

After two months, she trusted you enough to call her by the pet name she only let her closest friends call her. You were thrilled by this gesture. Mitchie. Mitchie Mitchie Mitchie. You loved saying that name. It suited her much more that Michelle, it seemed more outgoing, more beautiful—in short, more _her_. You told her that you would do just that, and then she took a deep breath, and asked you the question you thought would never escape your lips, much less hers:

"Would you like to go out with me?"

Oh how you wanted to scream to the Heavens and tell the whole world the woman you loved just asked you out—how you wanted to let everyone know that miracles _did_ happen, that you were the one who just might have won the heart of the most beautiful soul in the world.

Instead, you smiled and accepted. You arranged and place and time to meet, and she left with an excited goodbye.

You tried not to punch the air of kiss the ground she walked on as she skipped away—yes, she _skipped_—and laughed to yourself, your heart filling with joy.

--

The day finally came when you were to go out with Mitchie (you still weren't tired of calling her that yet) and you were a nervous wreck.

Your hair wouldn't stay straight, your necktie wouldn't stay in a perfect knot, but your stomach sure seemed to stay that way. Your brothers teased you as they walked by you standing in front of the mirror for so long—Shane finally has a date! They yelled. Yes, you finally did. And it was with a woman you absolutely _adored_.

You decided to give up on your hair and tie, and your stomach didn't seem to relax, so you just grabbed your wallet and coat, took off your tie, and finally met her at her favorite diner, which was conveniently at walking distance.

But you couldn't walk. You'd probably pass out when you entered the diner from how nervous you were, so, feeling guilty about the environment, you still took your car.

When you arrived, she was waiting, sitting on a table, looking more beautiful than ever. Her coat was still on—long and light blue, which was perfect with her skin, winter hat still on and she was rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. For a moment you stayed inside your car, heater off, and watched her. Every move she made was so interesting to you. How she smiled slightly and her eyes shone once in a while—thinking back on a memory, you supposed.

You finally got out of the car to not keep her waiting anymore, (plus it was getting too cold for your liking) and entering the diner she looked quickly behind her, and when she caught your eyes she smiled so wide that once again you are left with no breath at all. But you kept walking—you tried not to seem so nervous, how you tried so very hard to look like this was no big deal to you.

You sat down and apologized for keeping her waiting; she said not to worry, she hadn't been waiting for so long.

It's then when you noticed she had a cup of coffee in front of her, and you find this interesting.

"Why not order the hot chocolate?" you asked her, a smirk playfully on your lips. "It's their specialty here."

You remember how she wrinkled her nose and shook her head violently, her hair flipping along with her. "I hate the smell of chocolate," she confessed, and you gaped. Wow, Mitchie was more interesting than you thought she was, huh?

You blinked and asked her what on Earth compelled her to hate such a wonderful smell, but she said it brought back bad memories and she wouldn't like to talk about it.

And you agreed, you idiot. You should have pushed her. You should have asked her to let it all out—promised her that in you she had a friend, a trustworthy friend. Instead, you let her change the subject.

But throughout the whole night, you at least made her laugh.

--

It was December, a month later, and you two were officially an item. You were going strong, seeing each other almost every day and midnight conversations—it was like you were teenagers all over again.

You hadn't kissed her yet, though. You wanted to wait for the right moment. But she had met your parents, and you had met her mom—you never dared ask about her dad, and she seemed content with that fact.

But the curiosity was killing you.

You ignored it for a long time, though, and just enjoyed your time with Mitchie. Held her hand as often as possible, hugged her as much as you could without taking her breath away, saying goodnight every single night, and seeing her in person whenever both of you weren't busy.

It was New Year's Eve, oh, such a wonderful night for you. Your family and Mitchie's mother (she said her mom was her only family, and you never dared ask why) came together at your parent's house to celebrate. You laughed with her, you sang along with everyone, and she seemed so happy—truly happy.

And you wished she could stay that way forever, because her happy glow made the whole world stop spinning for you. She was even more stunning when she was content.

You took her outside where your family wouldn't disturb you, both of you just a little buzzes, but not as much as to not know what was going on. Both of you just stared at the fireworks for a while, when she said;

"I've never celebrated New Year's like this before,"

That whisper held so much sadness that it made you close your eyes and want to tune her out. You couldn't hear her with so much hurt in her voice—you couldn't stand seeing her this way. You couldn't ask her why, you couldn't dig into her past, break through her walls!

Save her.

You couldn't save her because you were a coward, that's why.

You held her hand and whispered, trying to dodge the subject, that the fireworks couldn't compare to her beauty.

She blushed a deep scarlet red that drove you crazy. You chuckled and pushed her hair behind her ears and you looked into each other's eyes for a moment, before hearing the countdown going on inside.

Five, you heard. This was it. Time to make your New year's resolution come true. Four. You leaned closer to her, and she did the same, and you noticed her breath came ragged. You smirked. Three. You wrapped your arms around her waist and leaned just a centimeter closer. Two. She brought her hands up to your hair and looked straight at your lips.

One.

"Happy new year," you whispered, before leaning in and capturing her lips with your own.

--

It was a rainy February day, and you called Mitchie to see if she would like to go out.

"In this weather?" she had seemed hesitant. "I'd rather not."

You were confused at this. You were going to be indoors, you promised her—it was okay if she was afraid of the rain.

Mitchie scoffed. "I'm not _afraid_," she clarified, and you chuckled, comparing her to such a small five year old defending herself, saying she wasn't afraid of the dark. "I just don't like the rain."

You asked why this was, and she said;

"Rainy days call for hot chocolate—I hate chocolate, you know that. It also means that tomorrow the weather will be horrible if it's sunny, and it just gets me down." She paused. "I'm depressed enough."

You ignored that statement. You, being the idiot you were, ignored the stupid statement that could have saved her life. Why? We must repeat, you were a coward. Instead, you said you would go visit her, and she had agreed.

You went in your car and knocked on her apartment door.

Seconds later her door was opened and you were in her arms and her lips were pressed to yours, kissing you hungrily, passionately, not like you both had kissed before.

Before you knew it, her hands were roaming around your body, and she separated from your lips to whisper, "I love you."

You were frozen by those words, and she had blushed and looked down. She was out of breath but managed to seem embarrassed anyway. You brought her head to level yours, and whispered "I love you too."

And with that, you were kissing again, this time harder, more desperate, desperate to do something more, to be able to feel her like no man (or so she had said) had ever felt her before.

Your clothes are soon all on the floor, and you pause to look at her. You asked if she was sure, if she would regret it later. She looked to the floor for a moment, then back into your eyes, and stroked your cheeks lightly. Then she whispered four words that sealed the deal;

"Make love to me."

--

It was April, officially your five month anniversary, when it all started to crash down.

You were content with how things were working out, you had stopped by a small street stand and bought her a white rose—she had mentioned before those were her favorites—and kept walking to her apartment.

There was a fifteen percent chance of rain, but you didn't let it ruin the day for you—you were going to see Mitchie, the love of your life, and you didn't care if rain (even if Mitchie did hate it) poured from the skies. May the skies cry, you told yourself. You wouldn't be joining them.

You knocked on her apartment door and hid the rose behind you, waiting for her to open and let you in. When she didn't after about two minutes, you knocked again. The door opened in a flashed—but what you saw made your heart drop.

Mitchie seemed very angry, and she was half dressed (ever since that February afternoon you seemed to be comfortable enough to be half dressed around each other) and she scowled at you. She told you to go away.

You asked her why, why was she mad?

She looked at you. "We're over," she had said, and that made everything around you crashed down. Your heart seemed to shatter into a billion pieces. Everything seemed to numb—black out, and you only saw Mitchie's bitter face and her words repeating in your head like a broken record—one you hated and couldn't stop.

"W-what?" you had asked, still a bit dazed.

Finally, Mitchie's features softened as she looked down. "I can't, Shane," she told you. "I can't bare to be with you, love you like I do, I'm afraid you'll hurt me and I'll lose you like I've lost every single other thing in my life." Tears were now falling down her cheeks.

There! You had your chance there, you idiot! To ask her about everything, help her! She was willing to tell you! You could have reassured you that she would never, under any circumstance, would she lose you, but you stayed standing still and waiting for her to say more. Like the stupid, incoherent bastard you truly are. Not _were_, but _are_.

Mitchie looked at you, and you finally cracked.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you yelled at her, and she flinched. It hurt you to see her flinch that way, but you didn't think to stop. You didn't think at all. "After everything I've done for you, Mitchie, you think I would truly leave you?" you scoffed, and Mitchie cried silently. "I would have never, Mitchie. But now you leave me no choice. You don't trust my love for you enough to know that I would never, _could_ never leave you. But I can't work with that. I can't work with doubt in this relationship!" you were furious, and you knew you were making a big mistake, but right then, you didn't care. "So go to hell, Mitchie Torres!" Mitchie flinched again, and it hurt your heart, oh so deeply, to be causing her so much hurt.

But you weren't thinking, so instead, you threw the white rose in her face and stomped out of the building.

That was a Wednesday the eleventh, the last time you saw Michelle (Mitchie, Mitchie, Mitchie. Your heart still sings at the name.) Torres alive.

--

The next day, Thursday the twelfth, you received a call from a frantic unknown person. You asked about a million times who they were, but all they yelled is 'It's about Michelle! It's about Michelle!' frantically.

You had a feeling this was bad, last night, your world changed in an instant to a black hole, but you didn't understand why. So you ran. You didn't take a car and the rain poured down hysterically. The sky was crying, it was crying over Mitchie, over you.

You entered her apartment and saw a person you didn't know crying very hard. You asked what was wrong, and he pointed shakily to the bathroom.

Your body begged not to enter, but your heart said you must. It was your pay, your consequence for being so cruel. As you entered, everything else seemed to disappeared and you gaped at the bathtub.

It had been overflowing, you knew, but the water had been stopped. There, lying lifelessly was the woman you loved; drowned in a bathtub of bloody water, with an empty can of pills floating over her.

You screamed so loud you heard other neighbors come in, but you didn't care. You grabbed Mitchie's body and held her close to your own, crying hysterically. She was gone. She had killed herself. Everything finally came to you—she had been serious. She was so depressed, there was something she was hiding, but she was crying out for help;

Help you didn't give her.

You cried and held Mitchie tighter. (Mitchie, Mitchie…) "No, no, no," you murmured again and again. You had told her to rot in hell the last time you saw her, and now you prayed she was in heaven. Oh, dear God, you begged for forgiveness. This was all your fault.

The ambulance entered the apartment and asked you quietly to let her go. You wouldn't oblige. You repeated over and over she was yours, always yours, and no one would take her away from you now. But they had to—they had to see what had happened.

As if it wasn't obvious! You screamed at them, and held Mitchie tight. No, you wouldn't let her go.

Somehow they managed to take her away from you, but you just cried and cried anyway. You stayed in her bathroom, her bloody bathroom, and heard crying children out the door (which you were probably the cause of) but didn't care. It seemed you were crying along with the rain, after all.

You looked over the countertop and find it dry, and paper folded neatly, and outside was printed 'To who it may concern'.

Your stomach sunk as you saw a white rose (that white rose you had thrown in her face, the last time you had to try and help her) sitting on top of it. Shakily, you picked up the note. You wet it (barely) and stained it with blood, but you were able to read it anyway.

You memorized the words, even:

_Dear whoever finds this:_

_I am terribly sorry for this sight. It must be terrible, terrible to find me this way. But there is not another way I could think of to end the pain._

_All my life I went through pain, it's all I have ever known—and it is time to admit I may even have deserved it. Since I was little, my dad hated my mother and me. He physically hurt us, to then leave us for another whore and economically, physically, and emotionally damaged._

_But we managed to pull through. Afterwards, I went to several heart breaks, people hating me, people not taking the time to realize who I really am—or was, anyway._

_Until I met this one special guy who my heart finally belonged to. Finally, things started to look up. _

_But I messed things up. Big time. I let him go without him wanting to go, and he hurt me more than words could ever explain or even begin to. He was my last hope, and he left._

_So all I have to say is sorry—I'm sorry for the damage I may cause because of this. But I leave you with this wonderful white rose—the last possession I truly care about._

_Goodbye,_

_Michelle._

Oh, how it had hurt you that you were her last chance at life and you repaid her by yelling at her and not offering to help her. You were a bastard that day, and this is what happened because of it. So, in a way, it was all your fault.

--

It's Friday the thirteenth, and you are at her funeral were you find how many people truly cared about her—how many people she overlooked.

Not a lot of them know who you are, but that doesn't surprise you—Mitchie didn't know how many people cared about her to know who she had to tell, who she could count on.

She was counting on you, Shane, but you never did anything.

And it's all over now. You look at her coffin, her body clean and laying as her mom cries over it.

You know that wherever she is now, her name still makes your heart sing. And you beg for her forgiveness.

You swear you hear and 'I love you' next to your ear, and a smile unconsciously takes over your face. Mitchie is here, and Mitchie will always be here, no matter what. No matter what happened two days prior; you love Mitchie.

You look down at your hands, and you have the object to prove it,

A white rose, one that seems to never wither away. One that will never wither away.

Not even in the cold, evil winter season.

--

_i come to you in pieces,  
so you can make me whole ._

--


End file.
